


inkstains

by mellowly



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Dyslexia, Dyslexic Legolas Greenleaf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Shame, Tutoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellowly/pseuds/mellowly
Summary: Legolas isn't much good at reading, and an attempt at a learning his letters with Gimli turns into a revelation.(Or: The one in which Legolas is dyslexic and sad, Gimli is a very good husband, and Dwarves are a lot better than Elves at handling disabilities.)





	inkstains

It’s a shame that ink leaves such tough stains, for he keeps spilling it along with his tears. His softest tunic has black speckles on the right sleeve, and it had dragged across the paper and the low table, dragged like the agony of shame that tightens around his spine every time he tries.

“Come, now, will you try once more?”

Gimli’s voice is gentle, still, but Legolas can hear the impatience dripping in like ink through fine silk. It punches him in the very gut.

_Stupid stupid stupid ridiculous useless-_

His eyes burn, but he stares down the book and nods, fearing that if he speaks, it may all spill out again. A few seconds pass.

“Go on, Elf. It’s not that difficult,” Gimli cheers, and he doesn’t look at him, just at the book, setting his pen aside.

The infuriating, ridiculous, horrid work of paper and leather and ink stares back, taunting him.

“O-doro- Oro-“ He hesitates, swears there was another letter in there, and it escapes him. Legolas hears his own voice falter, and feels shame burn his cheeks and ears.

“Legolas?” Now there it is; impatience. Weariness. Annoyance.

_Stupid stupid so very useless-_

“Yes?”

“Perhaps it’s be best we retire, now-“

“No!” The ferocity in his own voice shocks him. “I will do it! I can,” he adds, as if trying to convince- Gimli? Himself? “Or-edh,” he reads out, and it feels wrong in his mouth. There is no such word.

“Stubborn, ridiculous Elf. Come now, the books can wait,” says Gimli, and lifts the book. Legolas, to his own horror, bursts into tears; frustration and fury comes to a head, and he grasps for the book. It is easily caught in his nimble grasp, and crudely he flings it to the wall, a low thud preluding the choked sob of his voice.

“Good grief, Legolas, what’s got into ye, lad?”

The almost-anger and roughness of Gimli’s voice only incites a wail of despair, and Legolas tries to silence himself with a hand clamped over his mouth, nearly biting into his palm as he tries to stifle the helpless hitching of his breath. He does not look up when Gimli squats down on his haunches in front of him. His imagination supplies imagery enough; he is likely cross, if not livid, and Legolas is being ridiculous and stubborn and childish and useless and stupid, this is all his fault now, if the book is ruined-

“Will you look at me, love?”

There is boundless warmth in those rumbling tones, deep as the earth, and all his resolve crumbles. Gimli is smiling in that gentle, sad way that he knows means _I’m not angry_ , but it still stings and aches inside of him. “Tell me,” Gimli prompts, and it isn’t a question. Legolas, letting his hand fall, answers.

“It grieves me, for I am never skilled- The words evade me! It is like trying to shoot a stoat that never is still, and I cannot understand, I never can, it all gets so muddled up-“

There’s arms around him in hands in his hair.

“Legolas, love, I understand. I am not cross. Please, love, don’t cry, I am not cross.” He pauses, just stroking the back of Legolas’ head, kissing at his temple, and Legolas feels all his shame unravel. He cries into Gimli’s beard like an elfling. Oh, he used to be one, a long long time ago, an elfling who ran away from his tutors so they would not scold him when he stumbled over his words, an elfling who cried into his hands for he did not _know_ \- “Why wouldn’t you tell me? Stubborn, stubborn Elf, my wonder, my lovely- This is not something you control.”

“It- It is not? I thought- I did not-“

“’Tis a known thing among Dwarves. Some are born with letter-less heads, they say, heads that work wonders elsewhere but when it comes to reading books, they get lost. My wee cousin Dwinin was such, and he was no less clever for it.” Gimli falls silent, and slowly, Legolas calms.  
There’s a strange peace from Gimli’s words, a peace that settles deep within his chest, taking the thorns off the briar that had festered there.

“I will never get cross with you for it again.”

“Thank you,” he hiccups in reply, and Gimli simply chuckles and strokes his cheek with warm, work-worn hands that soothe his weeping.

“Now, I meant what I said when I suggested we retire for the night. Tomorrow, we wash these inkstains and try again.”


End file.
